In Crouch End

Giancarlo kneels before the image of the Holy Virgin which hangs on the wall in his bedroom, as it does in his father's.  He crosses himself.

'Holy Mary, Mother of God, hear my prayer.'

He prays as he has done every morning and night since his father took to his bed.  He prays for his father to be made well, for the good times to come back, for happiness.

It is a selfish prayer, mostly, and Giancarlo has been taught that selfish prayers are seldom answered.  He has no great hope that this one will be, either.  He finishes, crosses himself again, and rises to his feet, ready to go downstairs to the kitchen and prepare his father's supper.  Turning to the door, he suddenly freezes, amazed at the unexpected success of his orisons.  A misty golden radiance is filling the space between himself and the bedroom door – a radiance in the form of a winged man.

It speaks to him, and its voice is both near and distant, loud and soft, real and imaginary.  It tells him what he must do, if he wishes his father to be saved.

On the Underground and in Holland Park

It is only ten minutes' walk from the flat to Paddington Station.  Lizzie passes through the busy concourse and into the Underground station, where she buys a Zone 1 return ticket.  She walks down a short flight of steps to the Circle and District Line platform where, after a ten-minute wait, she takes a Circle Line train two stops anticlockwise.

The rush hour is just about over now and the train is far from being full.  Nevertheless, it is noticeable that the other passengers in the carriage prefer not to sit close to her, if it can be avoided.  Her taut, sallow skin and thin body say addict to the streetwise, of which there are many in London.

Lizzie leaves the train at Notting Hill Gate and takes the escalator down to the westbound Central Line platform.  She stands with her back bent against the concave tube station wall, waiting for the rush of wind that announces an approaching train.  'Not far now,' she says, partly to herself.

Fifteen minutes later she is standing outside the front door of her uncle's house in Holland Park.  It is a large house, covered in white stucco and, like many other houses in this well-heeled part of London, it has not been divided up into flats.  Her uncle is a very wealthy man.

Lizzie rings the doorbell and a servant answers.  'Good morning, Miss Elizabeth,' he says.  'You are expected in the library.'

'Thank you, Greaves,' Lizzie replies.  The servant stands aside, letting her into the hall, and closes the door behind her.  The servants like Miss Elizabeth.  She has exactly the right manner with them; self-confident, never rude, good-humoured, but not over-familiar.  It is in the breeding, so they say.  Her family has been rich and influential for many, many generations.

Lizzie crosses the hall and enters the library without knocking.  Her uncle is sitting in a large leather armchair by the fire, which has been recently lit and is burning with a smoky yellow flame.  'Good morning, Uncle Henry,' she says, and bends to kiss him on the cheek.  She takes another armchair on the other side of the fireplace, facing the old man.  A strand of fair hair trails across her face and she pushes it back behind her ear with her right hand.

'Thank you for coming over so quickly, my dear.'  Her uncle's voice is not strong.  He is frail, his once tall frame slumped in the armchair.  He could be any age from the mid-seventies to over ninety years old.

'Is the boy safe?'

'I left him in the flat, uncle.  I'm sure he'll stay there.  He's probably washing his clothes right now, so he won't be going anywhere for an hour or so.  Uncle Henry, may I…?' She gestures to her waist.

'No, my child.  I am expecting a visitor.'

'Oh, all right.'

'Lizzie, I want to thank you for your help last night.  We had to bring the boy in quickly, before we lost him again.'

'Why was it so urgent, all of a sudden?'

'I received a phone call yesterday evening, from The Grove.  The boy may have something of great importance to us.'

'I looked through his things, like you said.  There was nothing unusual there at all.'

'How much stuff does he have with him?'

'Nothing.  No bags or anything like that.  Just what he's wearing.'

'Nothing else?'  Henry looks disappointed.

'Wait – he said he had a locker.  It could be anywhere, though.'

Uncle Henry is silent for a while.

'Lizzie, I'm going to have to ask you to help us some more.  This is probably the most important thing you will ever do.'

'Yes, Uncle Henry.'  Ever the dutiful niece.

'Go back to the flat.  Make friends with the boy.  Suggest to him that you go out and get his things and bring them back to the flat.  Spend the afternoon around town.  Have fun; see a film, have something to eat.  Don't spend too much money – it'll make him suspicious.  Use cash, not credit cards.  Lizzie, did you notice anything odd about the boy when you picked him up last night?'

'No, not really.  Apart from his missing fingers, of course.'

'Was it difficult, persuading him to come with you?  Was he suspicious then?'

'Yes, a bit to start with.  But no, it was much easier than I thought it would be.'

'There are very good reasons for this, which I cannot tell you now.  Do you like the boy?  Did he tell you his name?'

'He said it was Darren.  And yes, I do like him, in a funny sort of way.  That hand of his is creepy, though.  I keep touching my own hand, just to make sure all the fingers are still there.'

'Yes, I understand. It is good that you like him; it will make your task easier.  His real name is not Darren, by the way, but it will be safer if you do not know what it actually is.

'Lizzie, I must say again how important it is that you do not let this – Darren – out of your sight.  Do whatever you must to recover his bags and keep him in the flat.  Now go.  The doctor will be here in a few minutes.'

'Yes, uncle.'  The interview is over.  'May I pop up to my room for a minute or two?  I need to pick up some things.'

'Yes, my child, you may.'

Lizzie climbs the stairs to her bedroom one at a time as she is feeling tired this morning.  She has lived in this house ever since her father's disappearance and presumed death nearly two years ago.  Like the rest of the house, her room is lavishly decorated and furnished, but it is also quite obviously a girl's room.  She locks the door behind her, takes a canvas holdall from the walk-in wardrobe and puts clothes, CDs and a couple of videos in it.  Then she lies on her bed and untucks her t-shirt from her waistband.

'Well, Parander,' she says.  'This is exciting!'

In the flat

'What form does it take?' Will asks, when he can find the breath to speak.

Lizzie's daemon is serpent-formed.  She carries him coiled around her waist.

'Wait a minute, Kir.  I want to get my head around this.  You say she has a daemon – well, everyone here does.  They just aren't visible.  Like Mary's bird-formed one.'

Lizzie's daemon is not like Mary's.  It has a full, visible, physical presence.

'Then…'

Yes.  She is either from Lyra's world, or another world in which humans are accompanied by their daemons in full visible form.  I think it's very likely that she is from Lyra's world, though.  There are other, more subtle, signs which a daemon can see and a human cannot.  There's a kind of resonance.

'But that must mean that… that's there's a way!  A way to reach Lyra's world!  A way to reach Lyra!'